“Good morning, Greet.” Greet. A familiar form of address. Like most Dutchwomen, Margaretha van Dyck was normally known by her maiden name, Margaretha de Groot; and that is how she had expected him to address her. Of course, he’d known her since she was a girl. But even so … He was normally such a formal man. She almost blushed. “You are still alone?”

She was standing in front of her house. It was a typical Dutch town house, a simple, rectangular dwelling, two stories high, with wooden sides and its narrow, gabled end turned to the street. This end displayed a handsome pattern of black and yellow brick. A short stairway led up to the street door, which was large and protected by a porch. This was the Dutch “stoop.” The windows were not large, but the ensemble was made impressive by the high, stepped gable that the Dutch favored, and the roof ridge was crowned with a weathervane.

“Your husband is still upriver?” Stuyvesant repeated. She nodded. “When will he return?”

“Who knows?” She shrugged. She could hardly complain that her husband’s business took him north. The trade in furs, especially the all-important beaver pelts, had been so great that the local Indians had hunted their animals almost to extinction. Van Dyck often had to go far north into the hinterland to get his supplies from the Iroquois. And he was remarkably successful.

But did he have to stay away so long? In the early days of their marriage, his journeys had only taken a couple of weeks. But gradually his absences had extended. He was a good husband when he was at home, attentive to her and loving to his children. Yet she couldn’t help feeling neglected. Only that morning her little daughter had asked her when her father would be home. “As soon as he can,” she had answered with a smile. “You may be sure of that.” But was he avoiding her? Were there other women in his life?

Loyalty was important to Margaretha de Groot. So it was not surprising if, fearing her husband might be unfaithful, she told herself that he was morally weak and, dreaming of solace in more righteous arms, allowed a voice within her to whisper: “If only he were a man like Governor Stuyvesant.”

“These are difficult times, Greet.” Stuyvesant’s face did not show it, but she could hear the sadness in his voice. “You know I have enemies.”

He was confiding in her. She felt a little rush of emotion. She wanted to put her hand on his arm, but didn’t dare.

“Those cursed English.”

She nodded.